


break/bind

by OssaCordis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Temporary Character Death, Character Study, First Kiss, Grief, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Romance, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OssaCordis/pseuds/OssaCordis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day Sherlock leaps from the roof of St Bart’s should be the worst of Greg’s life. But fate has a way of being kind.</p>
<p>
  <i>Written for a prompt on the kink meme.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	break/bind

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a brilliant prompt on the kink meme:
> 
> _I'd love to see a fic in which Lestrade is breaking the news to the family of a victim. I don't mind whether it's a minifill focusing just on that one scene, with the family being OCs. I don't mind if the family member is one of the characters we already know (John, Molly, Mrs H all spring to mind here)._
> 
> _Alternatively, M/L or J/L with Mycroft or John comforting Lestrade once he's broken the news to a family. Maybe the family took it particularly badly and it's playing on Lestrade's mind, he just needs some reassurance that he handled it perfectly, that he did the very best he could under very difficult circumstances._
> 
> _Basically, a soft, gentle Lestrade, carrying out the other side of his job._
> 
> I scrolled past this a couple of times, debating if I should take it or not. I’m not really a Mystrade shipper (or, I thought I wasn’t until I wrote this…), but it was such a fascinating idea, and I wanted to challenge myself to write something I wouldn’t normally attempt. Besides, I love writing both Greg and Mycroft, and it seemed only natural to write them together at least once. The original fill (found [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=129223686#t129223686)) is slightly different and not quite canon-compliant for S3. If this was your prompt, let me know so I can credit you!

Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.  
-Rumi-

* * *

It could have been any ordinary day. Wispy grey clouds and weak sunlight overhead. A gentle breeze rustling through the trees in Regents Park. Businessmen and women on late lunch breaks: smoking cigarettes and flicking the ashes onto the pavement, eating sandwiches from crumpled plastic packages, simultaneously wearing overly optimistic sunglasses and holding umbrellas in the crooks of their elbows.

Greg Lestrade steered a borrowed panda car down Baker Street and illegally parked it with the lights flashing. I won’t be here long, he told himself. It’s best to get these things over with quickly.

But he hesitated at the door. It never got easier, no matter how many times he had done this. The first time, he had been in his twenties. Young, new to the force, still naïve, slightly frightened… he rang the bell, informed the poor woman inside that her husband had been struck by a motorbike and killed instantly. And afterwards, he had shakily walked away and downed three pints too quickly that night in the pub. She had thanked him, that woman. So many people did. Why? Was it an unconscious reflex, uttering the words before they could realize what they were saying? Or did he have a particular talent for breaking bad news?

He took a deep breath and knocked. There was a pause, a moment of suspended time, and then he heard the scrabbling sounds of the door being unlocked. Mrs Hudson beamed up at him, wiping her hands on a floury apron.

“Gregory! Hello, dear! What a surprise! I was just making a tea loaf for the boys. Come in, I’ll make you a cuppa and you can try a piece.”

Greg cleared his throat. What was he supposed to say to her? It was like telling your mum that your brother was dead. No man should have to go through that. He followed her silently into the kitchen, sitting at her table and letting her pour him a cup as she nattered about the repairs that were being done in 221C, and what Mrs Turner had told her yesterday, and how angry she had been the week before when Sherlock had brought an unpreserved sheep liver home and tried to dissect it on the kitchen table upstairs.

“Without even a tarp under it!” Mrs Hudson indignantly said, finishing her story.

“Speaking of Sherlock…” Greg began.

“Yes, about him, dear. Is everything all cleared up with the police?”

“Umm,” Greg said.

“John came home a couple of hours ago, and I tried to ask him. Poor thing, he looked like he had seen a ghost and ran right out again. They’re never bored, those two, are they?”

Greg crumbled the serving of tea loaf on his plate, completely wrong-footed by her cheeriness. It had to be him, though. He wouldn’t have allowed anyone else to break the news to her, not when she was like family, and not when he had had such a hand in this misadventure.

No. Not strictly speaking true. John would have been the better candidate for this, but he was still at St Bart’s. In shock, which really wasn’t a surprise.

“Mrs Hudson,” he tried again. “I’m so sorry. I’m not here on a social visit.”

“Oh?” A crease appeared in her forehead, and she finally sat down at the table. “What is it, dear? Has Sherlock done something else? Do I need to bail him and John out again? You know, I’m not a wealthy woman…”

“No! No, it’s not that. Um. John is in hospital.”

Mrs Hudson’s hand flew to her throat. “Oh, goodness! What happened? Is he going to be alright?”

“He – yes – um. He’s not injured, not strictly speaking. He’s in shock. He… he… it’s about Sherlock.” Greg stopped and tried to steady himself. “Sherlock has died. He committed suicide, just a couple of hours ago. John was there. He saw it happen.”

Mrs Hudson let out a soft, choking noise.

“I’m so sorry. I really am. I’m… I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m…” He trailed off miserably. He was botching this. He wanted to comfort her, to be gentle and wise and sensitive, but instead he was babbling like an idiot while she stared at him.

“How did he do it?” she asked him, very quietly and tonelessly.

It was what people always wanted to know. How many times was he stabbed? How fast did she bleed out? Were they in pain, were they conscious, did they cry out for help or Mummy or a doctor? Always the gruesome details. Maybe it made everything seem more real to them, if they could picture it with all the lurid pieces in place. There would be medical reports later, too. It was always better to be honest.

“He jumped,” Greg said. “From the roof of St Bart’s. It was… quick.”

“He didn’t suffer.”

“No.”

Mrs Hudson’s head drooped, and her fingers twisted in the fabric of her apron. She began to cry at last: low, dignified sobs. The tears of a person who had already experienced untold loss. Sherlock had told him little bits and pieces of her story over the years. Her deceased husband had been charismatic but monstrous; for many blissful years, she hadn’t quite realized – or wanted to believe – that the man was a cartel kingpin. And then, as his life spiralled out of control and his body count rose, her life became increasingly nightmarish. But still, there she was day after day, getting on with her life and smiling and bearing no real ill will towards anyone. She was a wonder.

Greg half stood up and dragged his chair a little closer to hers. Sinking back down, he wrapped one arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him.

“Poor John,” she whispered. “That poor man… that… oh, what will he do without Sherlock?”

Greg could feel his throat tightening and tears beginning to prick at his own eyes. There were so many things she could have been angry about, so many people – himself included – whom she could have been infuriated with… and she was worried about John. But of course she was.

“He’s a soldier,” Greg said, his throat raw and irritated from the effort of trying to hold back his own emotions. “And he’s a survivor. He’ll get through this. But it will take time. It will take all of us some time.”

Mrs Hudson wrapped one hand around Greg’s, and she turned her face into his shoulder, letting his coat soak up her tears. “He’s going to be so lonely.”

Greg gave a low, wordless hum in response.

“Do you remember the first time you met Sherlock?” she asked, her voice muffled in his coat.

“Yeah.”

“He was twenty-five when he came to Florida. My husband and I lived there for many years. It was nice, at first. I have many fond memories. But in the end, I grew to hate it. Couldn’t stand the humidity, for one thing. Or my husband.

“But then, one day, there was this gangly young man at the beach who looked as miserable as I felt. I said hello. He said hello back. He was English, too.

“When you live abroad, and you meet someone from your home country, it’s like meeting a long-lost friend. Even if you can’t stand the person, it’s just so wonderful to hear a familiar accent.

“He told me that his brother had sent him to drug rehabilitation at an exclusive clinic in Boca Raton. He ran away. Hitchhiked up the coast, had plans to travel further. Wanted to see New York and Boston. But he stayed in Florida, because he could see that I had a bit of a problem. And he stayed all through my husband’s trial, right up until Mycroft personally arrived to bring him back to London.

“We kept in touch. I moved back here, and tried to watch out for him when I knew he was in London. Always ready with a meal, or a safe place to stay the night.”

“And, I suppose, that’s where I came in,” Greg murmured. “When he started showing up at my crime scenes, out of his mind on cocaine and spouting impossible deductions about my cases. I helped get him clean. I dragged his skinny arse to rehab more than once, sat up nights with him when he decided to go it alone… He’s the best thing to ever happen to Scotland Yard. I know he is – was. I know it. I don’t know why… I doubted him. I let other people tell me that it was all lies, all games. It wasn’t. I know he was brilliant. I sent him to his death.”

Mrs Hudson squeezed his hand. “You can’t think that way.”

“It was my fault.”

“It was no one’s fault,” Mrs Hudson insisted.

“It damn well was my fault,” Greg insisted. “And others, besides. I have to fix this. I will clear his name, so help me God, if it kills me. Or I’ll… I’ll resign. I’m a danger to the public, sending innocent men to their deaths.”

“No!” Mrs Hudson said with surprising force. “No, you will not resign. You need to go on solving cases. It’s the right thing to do.”

They sank into a sombre silence, interrupted only by the occasional sniffle from Mrs Hudson. Greg’s arm ached as he held it around her slender shoulders, though he refused to move. The shadows outside were beginning to lengthen.

“I have to go home,” he finally said.

“Yes, dear,” Mrs Hudson said with a sigh.

“Do you want me to call someone… is there anyone who can stay with you right now?”

She shook her head. “I think I want to be alone for a little while.”

“Right.” Greg stood and stiffly stretched. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry it happened. I’m sorry I didn’t do anything to stop it…”

“Don’t say those things,” Mrs Hudson said. “It’s like what you said. We’ll get through this. With time.”

Greg nodded. “I’ll… I’ll come by tomorrow, to see how you’re doing. If that’s alright? I’ve been suspended from the Yard. Not allowed to work until an inquiry is completed.”

“Yes, of course. Come by whenever you like.” She turned watery, reddened eyes to him. “Thank you, Gregory.”

Greg bit his lip. Why? Why did people do that? “Good night.” And why did he say that? How could she possibly have a good night after what he had told her?

He let himself out, stepping into the failing light of a grey evening. That didn’t seem quite right. The sky should have been blood-red and angry, or violently storming. Not dull and ordinary. How could anyone go about their day, settle onto their sofa tonight and watch the X Factor, sleep peacefully… Sherlock’s death should have been a national tragedy, and yet he knew that it would be a footnote on the evening news, maybe an ugly smear across the tabloids for a week or two before it faded from memory, like so many other deaths he had encountered in his time as a policeman.

The lights of the panda car were out, and he knew before he tried the key in the ignition that the battery was dead.

“Shit,” he yelled, slamming his fists on the steering wheel. Ok. He could call someone at the Yard. He could hail a cab and just leave the damn car here for someone else to deal with. He could…

An expensive-looking black car with tinted windows pulled up alongside him, and a window rolled down. Greg pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. He did not have the strength to deal with this right now. But he rolled his window down anyways.

“Hello, DI Lestrade,” Mycroft Holmes said, almost pleasantly. And yet, there was something rather haggard about his face, despite his tone of voice. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days, which he might well have done. He had never had the sharply angular features of his brother, Greg thought, but there were almost hollows in Mycroft’s cheeks now.

“Would you like to go someplace more private to talk?” Mycroft asked.

“No,” Greg blurted out, without thinking.

Mycroft sighed. “Would you condescend to join me on a stroll through Regents Park, then?”

Greg clenched and unclenched his jaw. “I…”

“Someone will replace the battery in your car while we talk, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

It wasn’t exactly what was bothering him, but he pulled the keys out of the ignition and opened the car door anyways. Likewise, Mycroft slid out of his own car, and motioned for the vehicle to leave him. It serenely glided up the street and around the corner.

Mycroft swept his hands down his suit to neaten invisible wrinkles that only he seemed to perceive. Greg had met him a few times before, when Sherlock was in the process of recovery, and then sporadically throughout the years as their interests and cases aligned. The man seemed to be an expert at inconspicuousness. Greg, if he had been asked an hour earlier, could have recalled that Mycroft was tall and had an aquiline nose, and if pressed might have described a stubborn disposition. But he would have recalled no more. And now, in Mycroft’s presence, Greg noted his imperiousness and fatigue, the way he physically held himself aloof, the direction his hair swept over his temples, and the neat cut of his three-piece suit. He was, as Greg constantly seemed to forget, an entirely three-dimensional person, not just a name Sherlock spat out with a tone of disgust.

“Shall we?” Mycroft asked, nodding in the direction of the park. Greg nodded.

They walked in near silence along Baker Street for a few minutes, the only sound their shoes on the pavement and the motorized hum of passing vehicles. Greg tried to anticipate what Mycroft wanted from him. Was he angry? Would he find a way to have him fired? Or was he seeking sympathy, or information about his brother’s death? It was hard to imagine Mycroft not knowing everything already. He had probably been through all of the earliest official reports, and even commissioned his own investigation. Christ, he had probably seen CCTV footage of the whole thing. It made Greg’s stomach churn. Even he hadn’t seen Sherlock leap to his death yet. He wasn’t sure he would ever be able to watch it. Seeing the spatter of blood on the pavement had been quite enough.

Greg wanted to sink into the ground and disappear. It was a feeling he had not experienced in decades. Not since he had first asked his wife out, at any rate. Or maybe the first time he failed to solve a case.

“My brother was very fond of you,” Mycroft said.

Was. Already the past tense. But the Holmeses were like that, weren’t they? Precise. Eloquent. Honest to the point of cruelty.

Greg tensed, feeling Mycroft’s eyes on him. He had been caught in his own thoughts, and now Mycroft awaited an answer. But what answer did he want?

“Yeah, I suppose,” Greg said, shrugging. “I mean, he’s – he was – a good man.”

Mycroft arched one eyebrow. “A good man.” Not a question, though it felt like one.

“Well,” Greg said. “I mean. He tried. Sometimes.”

“Hmm,” Mycroft hummed. “You know, as a young boy, I used to like astronomy. I knew all of the planets and constellations. I even built my own telescope. It took me at least a month to assemble it.

“Sherlock wanted to borrow it, but I wouldn’t let him. So he smashed it.” He paused, furrowing his brow slightly. “He was like that, you see. If he couldn’t have something, he would rather destroy it.”

“Ah,” Greg said, feeling as though he should contribute something to the conversation.

“But we all grow up, don’t we?” He tilted his head back and shaded his eyes to look at the gradually dimming evening sky. “I don’t think I remember the name of a single star now. Not that we see many in London.”

They were into the park now, skirting the boating lake. A few evening joggers and a family or two pushing prams crossed them on the path. Some distance off, through the trees, a few teens listlessly kicked a football back and forth and surreptitiously smoked under cupped hands. Greg watched them with half of a smile, remembering his own adolescent years. But the memory quickly dissipated, and he was back in London, standing next to the brother of a man whose death was likely on his hands.

“I’m so sorry, Mycroft,” he said. Every word was an effort.

“Don’t be,” Mycroft said.

“Sorry, what?” Greg asked, a little shocked by the practically dismissive tone of Mycroft’s voice.

Mycroft sighed, almost as if impatient. “My brother and I never had what you would consider an affectionate relationship. Far too much history and rivalry between us for that. Though I did understand him, and that was something… He was very troubled. He didn’t expect to make it out of his twenties alive.”

Greg frowned and stopped walking.

“You think I’m being heartless,” Mycroft said.

“No,” Greg said, a little too quickly. Mycroft was giving him that look. The Holmes look. The gaze that could peel back the layers of your psyche and deduce down to the last detail what you had been doing that morning at exactly 8:17, whether you liked it or not. Denial was always a poor strategy when faced with Sherlock or Mycroft’s deductive abilities. “He… the last five, six years… he sorted his life out. It’s just a bit of unfair, don’t you think, to say that he was troubled?”

“Hmm. Unfair? No. He stabilized, to a certain extent, over the past couple of years. Undoubtedly due to the good doctor Watson’s influence. But, regardless, he still had a certain talent for finding trouble.”

“Or it found him,” Greg said.

“He lived for it,” Mycroft sighed. “Still. De mortuis nil nisi bonum dicendum est. Isn’t that the popular phrase?”

“What?”

“Do not speak ill of the dead.”

“Oh. Right,” Greg said, nodding. “Yes. That’s it.”

“Because you never know if they’ll be listening,” Mycroft said. Greg couldn’t tell if he was being entirely serious. There was something rather disingenuous about the way his mouth quirked, ever so slightly, as if he was telling himself a private joke.

“I want to thank you,” Mycroft said, interrupting Greg’s thoughts.

“What for?” Greg felt utterly lost. Talking with the Holmeses always bordered on disconcerting, but this was something else entirely. Their dialogue had twisted and turned in directions he could not have predicted. He was used to a certain kind of formulaic discussion with the loved ones of the deceased, but so far the conversation had been nothing like he would have predicted. With the one, peculiar exception of being thanked.

“For breaking the news to Mrs Hudson, of course,” Mycroft said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I was going to… but I think we can both imagine how well that would have gone.”

“Yeah. Not well,” Greg said, with a grim laugh.

“You’re not going to be fired. You’ll be off of suspension in a week,” Mycroft said. “If that’s what is really bothering you. Scotland Yard needs competent men like yourself.”

Greg scuffed the toe of his shoe lightly on the ground and glanced over at the football-playing teens across the park. He was embarrassed by the compliment, as subtly delivered as it had been. “Something should happen. I opened an investigation that resulted in a man’s death.”

“An entirely valid investigation, given what you knew. You couldn’t have realised the outcome when you began. The inquiry against you will be dropped.”

Greg felt shaky and odd. It seemed entirely unjust that he would come out of this tragedy more or less untouched, when so many other’s lives were a shambles. And yet, he was relieved beyond measure. He loved the Yard. Under the heavy sense of dread that Sherlock’s death had brought upon him, the fear of being fired had been chafing at him all day.

“I… I don’t know what… I know you’re responsible for this. I’m…” He gruffly cleared his throat. “Thanks… mate.” He inelegantly flung his arms around Mycroft, and was surprised to find that the other man was slightly taller than him. He was also surprised to note that Mycroft wore cologne; there was a faint scent of… something vague and clean, but slightly outdated. Greg suddenly realised that he had held on for perhaps a little too long, and that he needed to let go very soon or risk things becoming even more awkward.

But, while it was true that Mycroft didn’t exactly embrace him back, he was neither uncomfortably stiff nor writhing to get away. He seemed to be more or less content to just let whatever was happening play out.

“I really am sorry about Sherlock,” Greg mumbled. “He really was a good man. And he loved you, in his own way. I’m sure of it.” And then he released Mycroft, flushing and looking away and fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves.

But Mycroft was still within his personal space, looking, for once in his life, astonished. Greg shot him a brief, wary look, and then dissolved into somewhat frenzied laughter.

A faint scowl crept over Mycroft’s face, causing Greg to laugh even harder. It really wasn’t funny, but the alternative was to cry, and he just didn’t have the strength for that.

“You would think you’ve never been touched in your life!” Greg said.

“Physically, or emotionally?”

“Both!”

There was a real frown on Mycroft’s face now. “I’m not a machine, though you seem to think I am. You’re not the first to assume that. And I admit that I have worked to make it seem that way.”

Greg was slowly coming out of his hysterical little outburst. He cocked his head, surveying Mycroft, and asked, “What’s the point of it? I know, I really do, that you’re human underneath it all. Pretending not to be hurt by this – by Sherlock’s death – it doesn’t make it not true, does it? I just don’t… I mean, why be a machine, when you’re a man?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said, though he didn’t sound wholly convinced. But he stepped a little closer, and looked down at Greg with clear intent in his eyes. Greg had all the time in the world to move away, but he didn’t, and he let Mycroft cup his jaw in one hand and he closed his eyes and sighed into the kiss, warm and gentle and a little bit chaste. It was, Greg hazily thought, the nicest kiss he had ever had. Not the best… but the nicest. Who would have thought, behind Mycroft Holmes’ rather icy persona, was a genuinely kind man…

“You know…” Greg murmured, his lips still half-pressed to Mycroft’s, “…I’m married.”

“Your wife is having an affair,” Mycroft quietly hummed.

“She always is,” Greg said, unhurriedly straightening up. “And… I’m straight.”

Mycroft waved one hand dismissively, abruptly shifting back into his old demeanour. “Don’t bore me with your sexual identity crisis.”

“That sounds like a Holmes I know,” Greg said, reaching out and stroking his thumb down Mycroft’s jawline. “Still. I’d like to see you again. If you’re… if my involvement with your brother’s death isn’t too… upsetting.”

Mycroft gave the faintest of smiles. “I told you not to be sorry about that. You did the right thing. Your behaviour was irreproachable, and you have been of the utmost value to Mrs Hudson, and me.”

Greg smiled back.

“Your car is repaired,” Mycroft said, pointing across the boating lake. Sure enough, someone had parked the panda car, lights flashing again, on the nearest street.

“Right. Good.” Greg chewed at the corner of his lip, suddenly wishing for a cigarette or a distraction. “Thank you.”

“I’ll be around,” Mycroft said. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon enough.”

Greg took half a step towards Mycroft, then thought better of it. “Yeah. Good. I’ll…” he swallowed nervously. “I’ll look forward to it.”

Mycroft turned and began to walk away through the trees in the park, giving only half a wave in farewell. Greg watched him until he disappeared around a bend in the path. In spite of everything, he thought… all of the bad news he had delivered throughout his years at the Yard… and all the mourning yet to come… It should have been the worst day of his life, and yet, he felt hopeful.

Maybe he couldn’t quote Latin or read a man’s life in his face. But he did know that there was a dead lion on the label of Lyle’s Golden Syrup tins. And bees were making honey out of it. And good things would always follow bad things. He had seen it enough times in his own life for it to be true.

He ran one hand absentmindedly across his lips.

And then, under the darkening London sky, he walked to the car with his head held high, got in, and drove away.


End file.
